Sonderweg
by PrinceofElsinore
Summary: "Sing to me of the man, Muse, the man of twists and turns..." It is eleven years since Gilbert left for the war. When Christmastime comes around, when the snow falls, Ludwig remembers. [Written for the 2014 Tumblr Germanfest Secret Santa]
1. Erster Gesang

This is the first half (roughly) of a fic written for the 2015 Tumblr Germanfest Secret Santa exchange. Second half to follow.

Warnings (for what is posted so far only): brief graphic descriptions of war violence/gore, mild swearing, historical references, pretentious literary quotes, and an attempt at a new writing style inspired by dense difficult books I haven't actually read.

All quotes come from Homer's Odyssey.

I should give credit to the sadly unfinished fic "Aus der Traum" by YoBeezy on this site, for providing the inspiration for this fic.

...

—**Erster Gesang—**

_Sing to me of the man, Muse, the man of twists and turns_

_driven time and again off course, once he had plundered_

_the hallowed heights of Troy._

_Many cities of men he saw and learned their minds,_

_many pains he suffered, heartsick on the open sea,_

_fighting to save his life…_

December 22, 1953

The photograph was faded; partially from the heat of the fire it had survived, partially from the slow march of years from the day it was taken. The corners were singed, but in the center the features of a face were still discernable. A young face, a handsome face above a stiff soldier's collar, gazing out from the borders of the portrait with eyes that at turns looked stern and proud, or resigned and weary. As if the subject could see the fate that awaited him on the distant horizon.

Large, blunt fingertips smoothed the photograph with surprising tenderness, tracing the features that each year grew more ghostly pale and threatened to disappear altogether.

—I'm glad you could make it.

The young man in the soldier's uniform didn't respond.

—I wasn't so sure, you know, what with the snow yesterday. It's going to be a bad winter.

A silent, steely gaze, unchanging.

—If your car needs some fixing after the ride up, I can take a look at it, no problem. Grandpa always said, if the Bolsheviks came and took the house and the inheritance, I could make my living as a mechanic. He showed me a trick or two. …Of course for free! If you think I'd charge my own brother for a simple tune-up job, and on Christmas, you've got another think coming, Gilbert Beilschmidt. Now, just sit yourself right here and make yourself at home. I'll go make some tea; you're probably freezing after the trip over, aren't you?

The man with the large hands set the photograph gently down on the mantelpiece between sprigs of evergreen. He turned and disappeared into the next room.

—Honey or lemon? he called back. His resonant baritone filled the room and spilled into the hall, reverberating off polished marble and wood so that the dog lounging on the divan perked up its ears anxiously. The house was not used to voices.

Gilbert Beilschmidt didn't answer.

…

—Good day, Herr Beilschmidt! What will it be for you?

The rotund shopkeeper wiped at his nose with a kerchief before stuffing it back in his breast pocket, and gave an ingratiating smile.

—A bottle of the Krug, 1947, please.

—A fine year. Are we celebrating, mein Herr?

—It's Christmas, Ludwig responded with a blank expression.

The shopkeeper's grin faltered.

—Oh, of course, I just meant—ah, never mind. One bottle of the Krug it is.

His shiny bald head descended the steps to the cellar.

A pretty girl, not more than nineteen, appeared from the back room. A bright flush colored her cheeks as she smiled timidly.

—Oh, hello Ludwig.

Ludwig Beilschmidt stiffened at the familiar address.

—Fräulein.

He nodded cordially to the girl. Her blush deepened with mortification.

—I—I thought it must be you, I was just in the back doing the ledgers and I heard your voice and—is there anything I can help you with?

Ludwig shook his head infinitesimally. Let her down easy, like always.

—Your father is already attending to me, thank you.

—Oh! Oh, of course he is. Well. Then, if you're sure you have everything you need…

Ludwig smiled politely.

—Quite sure, Fräulein.

The sound of the shopkeeper trudging up the squeaking cellar stairs alerted them to his return.

—Here we are, Herr Beilschmidt—ah, I hope my daughter's not been disturbing you?

The girl looked on the edge of tears; Ludwig pitied her.

—Not at all, he said with a small smile.

She gave him a grateful look: too admiring.

—Well. Belle, back to work, please, said the shopkeeper pointedly. The girl slipped away back the way she came.

The man wiped sweat from his brow and set about wrapping the bottle with meticulous care. He cleared his throat and glanced at his customer.

—Fine champagne like this, must be planning on sharing it with someone special, Herr Beilschmidt?

—Just an old friend, responded Ludwig vaguely.

—Oh? The shopkeeper's eyebrows rose up in interest. Spending the holiday up at the old house, is he?

Ludwig smiled mildly, eyes aloof: drop the subject.

The shopkeeper understood and set his mouth in a tight line. He finished the package with a neat bow and handed it over. Ludwig passed a couple crisp banknotes across the counter.

—A very good day to you, Herr Beilschmidt, and a merry Christmas!

—Likewise.

Ludwig headed for the door, bottle tucked under his arm.

—Enjoy the Krug! And do be careful out, Herr Beilschmidt—with all this snow on the roads…

The shopkeeper's voice dwindled into the tinkling of the bell above the door as Ludwig pushed out into the cold. He tucked his head against the wind and trudged on, through the snow that had yet to be cleared.

Why don't you buy yourself a car, Herr Beilschmidt? They ask me that all the time. Everybody expects a man like me to drive a shiny new BMW 502 or the likes—don't need one. Never have. Never will, I suspect.

The streets were empty, silent, muffled in a layer of white. Ludwig walked alone under a low, gray sky. Oppressive. The brisk air nipped at his cheeks. Mama would have said: Father Frost has been pinching your cheeks! and she would insist he and his brother wrap yet another scarf around their flushed faces before they could go back out to play in the snow. Gilbert would never comply without a grumble.

The first snowfalls always brought back memories. Winter is the season for remembering, Mama always said. The rest of the year you can go out and make new memories, but winter is for staying by he warmth of your fire and thinking back on the old.

The town was so quiet and still, it could have been frozen in time. Crossing of Frankfurter Straße and Kaiserbrücke. Remember us tumbling in the snow here? Eleven years ago, now. The last time we were here together.

Christmas at Grandfather's house, every other year. The old house at the top of the hill, the house of the family that had once owned everything as far as you could see from its windows. That house was another world, far grander than the flat in Berlin where Ludwig and Gilbert grew up. There, they were princes, rather than the decidedly middle class city brats they usually were. Their grandfather was rich, but that didn't mean that their parents were. To their young minds, Grandfather's house was a magical, fantastical palace: their castle, their fortress.

Now more like a prison.

Much too large for only one person, even with the dogs besides. Should just sell it. Don't know why I haven't. The upkeep will eat up all the money eventually.

Ludwig kept all but three rooms sealed off; the sitting room, kitchen, and one bedroom—one of the smaller ones—were enough for him. Too much space: insufferable. Empty rooms and blank windows: spaces where other people ought to be. Even if his grandfather had grown old and died, as people do; even if his parents had been killed—in the various ways that people can be killed—in Berlin in '45; even if his brother had been taken by the Russian bear (though he didn't know how, exactly); there should have been others. Friends perhaps, or at least neighbors on friendly terms. Perhaps a wife.

They all wonder why I'm not married yet. They all hope, maybe their daughter… or entertain hopes themselves. Like Belle. Too young. Maybe only five years—that's not such a difference. Mother was ten years younger than Father. But still, too young for me. She is pretty, in a way. Or at least the postman probably thinks so. But he looks at all the girls.

Women found him attractive, Ludwig knew that much. Sometimes, when he was alone—which was practically always (except the dogs), but truly alone, not just solitary but truly feeling his solitude in that large house on top of the hill—he would try to imagine the delight of a woman that all other men seemed to crave so much: the softness of their breasts and thighs, their warmth against and around him. But it didn't bring much comfort. It felt too much like work, trying to imagine all that, and he was left frustrated and confused, because he knew there was something in his flesh and bones that itched and ached for physical companionship, just as his mind yearned for a an understanding partner in conversation. It seemed hopeless that he'd find the fulfillment of either desire in any person, let alone both united in one; he'd never felt the spark that poets spoke of when he'd laid eyes on a woman, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd exchanged words with someone who had genuinely engaged him. More often than not social interaction—the necessary kind, like at the shop—brought him an even physical sort of pain.

Ludwig had no friends. He was quite sure no one in this town could be his friend—or if they could, he was too tired to try to find them.

But something bound him there. Something kept him in that house year after year. Ghosts of the past. Perhaps it's because it's the last place I saw you truly happy. Our last Christmas, just before you turned 18, just before you were old enough for them to take you away. Swept up in something so much larger than either of us could comprehend.

—Merry Christmas, Lutz.

You flash a grin of white teeth. I look at what you hold out to me in your hand.

—You can't give that to me, I complain.

—Sure I can. It's Christmas, I can give my Brüderchen anything I want!

—But it's yours. It's your favorite.

—It is my favorite, but now it's yours. You gotta keep it safe for me. Till I get back.

You hang the whistle around my neck. I turn it over in my hands, feel the rough wood. It is carved to look like a little bird, painted yellow. I stroke its head.

—But you haven't even gone yet…

—Then call this practice. You can get used to taking care of him before I go.

I turn hard eyes on you.

—Why do you do that?

—Do what? You raise an eyebrow. A silver arch, like a crescent moon.

—Pretend like you don't care anymore.

You fall silent, frowning at the fire that roars cozily on the hearth.

—Why can't you be as clueless as every other twelve-year-old I know, you grumble.

—How many other twelve-year-olds do you know? I question dubiously.

You roll your eyes.

—Okay you got me. But seriously, where do you get off being so smart, huh? Don't get it from me, that's for sure.

You reach out to ruffle my hair.

—Don't say that. You are smart. Well, sometimes.

You laugh, a single, harsh bark.

—And he's ruthlessly honest too!

—You're avoiding the question, I accuse.

You sigh.

—Look, Lutz, it's not that I don't care, okay? It's just… it's the way it is, so we've gotta deal with it. No use moping and being all serious all the time just because they're gonna ship me off in a few months.

Something clenches tight in my chest. You're too callous, too honest. A few months. That's all we have. Why haven't I treasured the time more, how have I let is slip away so quickly when I've known for years this time would come? From the day the war started, even earlier—whenever Father would talk about what a fine soldier you'd make, how you'd do us all proud. Of course there was always hope—it'll be a short war, it'll be over before he turns eighteen—but time is running out and the war is in full swing. But surely if I'd only tried harder, I could have wrung more out of every moment, every hour, every day, filled the months so full each one would feel more like a year, postponed the day of your leaving just a little further—

—Hey, Lutz, cut it out. You look like the dog just died. I'm still here, okay? We've got time. You smile at me, but I can see that the smile doesn't reach your eyes.

We have time—a few weeks, maybe a month. But the thing about time is it passes so quickly, and then is gone.

…

Ludwig set the package down on the kitchen table and shuffled off his coat. He arranged his boots by the stove to dry and placed the bottle of Krug in the icebox. For later.

The dogs gathered around him eagerly, tails wagging in expectation of treats or a good scratching. Ludwig indulged them in the latter, but showed them that his pockets were empty. He would give them their strips of dried pork tomorrow, for Christmas Eve.

Still they followed hopefully as he made his way to the sitting room and started a fire going to try and chase the cold from the corners of the room where it had seeped in through the bricks and wood. Then back into the kitchen, where the dogs looked on with open, salivating mouths as Ludwig carved himself some slices of Wurst, cheese, and bread for a simple dinner.

He sat with his plate at the kitchen table in silence, save for his own chewing and the soft pant, pant, of the dogs at his feet. When he was finished he tossed them the rinds of his sausage, washed his plate, and retired to the sitting room with a cup of coffee.

He poked at the fire to enliven its spark, and settled himself down on the divan. The dogs came sniffing in search of more scraps, but when it became clear their master was paying them no heed they curled up on the hearth rug, still fixing the human with doleful eyes in vain hope.

But Ludwig's mind was elsewhere. His gaze was fixed on the soft blanket of white outside the window, now glowing with the rising moon. Glowing, like his pale skin had, on nights when the silver discus peeked in through the window at two boys huddled together under blankets that couldn't keep out the winter chill.

Your skin was always pale. It will help me blend in with the Russian snow! you laughed. And then I had nightmares that I was searching for you in the snow and couldn't find you, I kept digging and digging till my hands were numb with cold because I knew you were in there _somewhere_, but I never found you. Lost in a vast expanse of white.

You were always at home in the snow. Your element, so to speak. You taught me how to build the best fortresses and pack a good snowball; a consummate soldier. Father would smile, proud and brash, ruffle your hair. 'Deutschland's little hero.' Mama's lips would tighten, her eyes shine with a worry I didn't quite understand back then. When you were still young you were pleased at Father's words, but then as you got older your jaw would set, your expression harden, when you heard them. 'Deutschland's little hero' turned from praise to burden, a title you were duty-bound to carry on your bony shoulders; it only grew heavier when Father dropped the 'little.' You were to be a hero for Germany, as Father had been before you, in the Great War, the war they would have won had it not been for the Socialist conspiracy (according to him). Hypocrite.

At first I didn't understand why you would fall silent when Father started speaking of glory, honor, and the Fatherland. I remember such envy, watching the Hitler Jugend in their pristine uniforms practicing their drills in the Lustgarten, all precise, firm lines and swift, strong movement under the shining sun. My eyes lingered on them even as Mama tugged me away. And the boys in the classes ahead of me at school, the ones old enough to be in the Deutsches Jungvolk, talked with such excitement in their eyes, almost a fever, of the glorious deeds of soldiers, and of how quick they would be sign up when the day came—for we knew it was inevitable, with all the worldly wisdom of ten-year-olds—that the Bolshevik hordes invaded. I couldn't understand why you'd hesitate to take part; and you looked so impressive in your DJV uniform, too. Made me swell with pride that that handsome, strong youth (I never did notice how lanky you were, all wiry muscle), worthy of any DJV or even HJ poster, was my very own brother, filled me with such intense longing to be just as perfect, down to the last button. The sight made Father boastful and beaming, and it made Mama tremble like a leaf in autumn.

But then I began to understand. I began to understand when Mama looked at me with the same concern that was usually reserved for you, whenever Father brought home issues of _Der Pimpf _and I stared for hours at the vivid covers and photographs inside. I remember after reading one of the articles, I refused the piece of buttered bread Mama offered me for breakfast, because I didn't want to be a "mama's boy"—the article had warned against that type, that let their mother butter their bread—and Mama looked so shocked and hurt I almost took it back. But I didn't, and on the way to school you pulled me aside and boxed my ears and yelled at me for hurting Mama like that, because she worked so hard and saved every last scrap just so I could have any butter at all and how would I like to eat my bread dry for the next month if I was really as good as all that. I cried and cried, blubbering that I read it in _Der Pimpf_, and you told me _Der Pimpf_ was full of lies only people too dumb or too young would ever fall for. And that was that.

I understood a little more on the night a year later when we woke up to a commotion outside; we went to the living room to look out the front windows, but Mama and Father were already there in their nightclothes, peering out through cracks in the drawn curtains. I remember Mama's tear-streaked face as she told us to go back to bed, and even Father's mouth was a grim line. Through the night the noise only grew more terrible and I huddled closer to you and your warmth under the covers, plugging my ears from all the yelling and the crashing of breaking windows and the crackling of fire that sounded much too close. The next day you took me out for errands and there was glass all over the sidewalk and the building down the street that had always looked so beautiful wasn't beautiful any more; the door was in splinters, the stone was blackened, and the colorful windows were shattered. I asked why. You told me it was a synagogue, where Jews worshipped, and if I heard the boys at school saying bad things about Jews—which I did hear, often enough—I wasn't to listen to a word of it, because hate and ignorance were the defenses of the weak and stupid. I thought you sounded so grown-up when you said that. I tried repeating it to my classmates the next week, when they were talking mean about a Jewish classmate who hadn't come to school since the night they made the synagogue not-beautiful, and I got beaten up the worst I've ever been. The school nurse had to call Mama to come take me home, and she fussed over my scraped elbows and swollen nose with shining eyes and told me in a hushed voice that I must be careful what I say. But wasn't it true, what you had said? And she told me that it was true, but people didn't always like to hear the truth. I sat on the edge of the bathtub for so long and Mama worked on me with the patient focus of a nun in prayer, and the rays of the lamp overhead caught her hair and she looked for a moment like one of those paintings in the Catholic cathedral Grandpa took us to Christmastimes, like an angel or the Virgin Mary stoically bearing the burden of her only son's dead body, his ribs like mountain ranges and deep shadowed valleys between, skin the pale green-gray that Grandmama's had been before she died, such a distant memory, but that pale green-gray sticks tenaciously in the brain, the color of sickness and death, and the Holy Virgin's face was almost the same pale shade as she turned her eyes upward in an expression I could never understand, back then. Mama's expression often reminded me of that, years later whenever we received your treasured letters from the front, those treasured few we received… And when you came home and saw my bandaged elbows and swollen nose and asked me what happened I was embarrassed, thought you'd be angry, or worse laugh at me, but instead you looked so proud it made all the pain go away, my head was floating I was so pleased by the way you smiled at me. That little grin, barely a smile really, but your eyes were full of admiration—admiration for _me_—and I could see it and it made me want to pick fights with those boys every damn day and I might have if it hadn't been for Mama and how concerned she looked. And you used all your allowance that week to buy me chocolates.

I understood even more on the day early the next year—1939—when you joined the Hitler Jugend, since the law required it by then—though Father would have made you sign up anyway. The rumblings of war were everywhere that spring, and when you first walked into the living room in your brand new uniform—a man's uniform, it seemed to me—there was something different in you eyes, a dawning realization that this was not a game anymore, like you used to imagine while out running training maneuvers on the green with your DJV Jungenschaft. And that night when I crawled into bed with you—already eight-and-a-half years old and I still hadn't broken the habit—I could hear you sniffling into the pillow. I thought you were getting sick at first, but no, you were crying. You insisted you weren't, but I could tell, and I asked why, and finally you told me you didn't want to die and I'd never been so scared as that night when you cried into my shoulder, more scared than the night all those windows were broken, but also I'd never felt so grown-up, giving you comfort, protecting you I fancied, instead of the other way around for once.

But I couldn't protect you. Not from what was to come.


	2. Zweiter Gesang

—**Zweiter Gesang—**

_So I wish that they who have their homes on Olympus would make me vanish, or sweet-haired Artemis strike me, so that I could meet the Odysseus I long for, even under the hateful earth… Yet the evil is endurable, when one cries through the days, with heart constantly troubled, yet still is taken by sleep in the nights; for sleep is oblivion of all things, both good and evil, when it has shrouded the eyelids._

December 23, 1953

—Please, help yourself to any of the books in the library.

Ludwig gestured to his 'library'; the modest shelves lining the walls of the sitting room, crammed to bursting with dusty old volumes. Most of them had not been touched in many years. But a few bore the signs of frequent usage, including the one in Ludwig's hands.

—You can even take a few with you, if you like—you might get more use out of them than me. Except this one, of course.

He lifted his copy of _The Odyssey_.

—But you already have your own copy. You do still have it, right? I think Mama would be quite upset to learn you'd gone and lost it somewhere in a Russian snow bank. The book's nearly a hundred years old.

The photograph on the mantel maintained its silence.

—No, I am not suggesting you're careless with your things, Gilbert. I was just checking.

The young man in the uniform gazed ahead, neither accusing nor offended.

—I'm on Book 11, the descent into the underworld. It has ghosts in it—you always liked ghost stories. Shall I read to you?

Ludwig cleared his throat, and began:

—'_But you, Achilles,__  
__there's not a man in the world more blest than you— __  
__there never has been, never will be one.__  
__Time was, when you were alive, we Argives__  
__honored you as a god, and now down here, I see,__  
__you lord it over the dead in all your power.__  
__So grieve no more at dying, great Achilles.'_

You know, I often imagined you charging over the frozen plains, fearless and fierce as a warrior of old. You must have been god-like in your wrath, storming the impenetrable enemy lines. Before you went away, you were always so strong, so brave, I wanted to be just like you. I wanted to join the army too, so I could follow you into battle and do you proud. But you promised to win the war single-handedly before you would let me become a soldier.

—_I reassured the ghost, but he broke out, protesting,__  
__'No winning words about death to me, shining Odysseus!__  
__By god, I'd rather slave on earth for another man—__  
__some dirt-poor tenant farmer who scrapes to keep alive—__  
__than rule down here over all the breathless dead.'_

Ludwig's eyes wandered away from the page, towards the fire crackling on the hearth.

You must lord over the dead, don't you? A cock-sure, arrogant spirit in death as much as in life. How could fire such as yours ever disappear completely? How could it be snuffed out as simply as a candle? It couldn't be, surely; that grin, that full-throated raucous laugh that Mama always told you to tone down—they must exist somewhere still, even if only shadows of their former selves. They cannot have gone out of existence completely, not when they are so branded in my brain.

But then what of Odysseus; what of the ghosts he encounters in the underworld? The sad, gray shades, masses upon masses of them, floating in aimless, interminable existence. Like masses of dead soldiers, of Germans and Russians and millions of others all condemned to the same fate, reduced to the same non-existence, all differences between them erased in death. And in those countless dead you are but a drop: insignificant, no more singular or special than every other individual in that vast, unending river. If you could speak to me, as Achilles to Odysseus, you wouldn't regale me with tales of glory, like you used to tell me under the covers at night, keeping me awake in thrilling terror long after we should have both been asleep. No. I would not want to hear what you would say, would I. Such life, such spark, confined to the drifting monotony of that purgatory, could have nothing but pain to impart.

Ludwig closed his book and set it down. Pain was not unfamiliar to him. It had been his constant companion for eleven long years. It had soaked into his bones and his brainstem; it was written into his DNA. It had almost grown comfortable there, settled so deep inside of him, and Ludwig knew if it were ripped from his nerves and his veins all of a sudden, he would no longer know himself. He knew pain intimately, and yet still he shirked it, when it built too much in the cavern of his skull, when the pressure grew behind his sternum, threatening to break through.

That was why he tended not to probe these thoughts the rest of the year, why he only flipped through the pages of _The Odyssey _at Christmastime, though he used to scour them for explanations, excuses for why his brother had not yet returned. They awoke the pain that slumbered within. They awoke the memories.

—Gilbert darling, come here, I have something for you.

Mama beckons to you from the divan where she sits. You rise, clutching the book Father has given you to your chest. _The Illiad_. White knuckles. She pries it from your fingers.

—Don't you give another thought to that book. All that talk of killing and glory. Here, this is what I want you to read—what I want you to remember.

She presses another book into your hands.

—Mutter…

—Don't you 'Mutter' me now. Read it. I know you were supposed to for school already but I never saw you crack a page. You've got enough time now, though. No excuses.

You look down at the book. I can't see the title—I wonder what it is.

—This is Grandfather's very own copy and he's been gracious enough to let you have it, she says sharply. It belonged to his father before him, and his father before that. It's almost a hundred years old, isn't that right, Papa?

Grandfather nods from his chair by the fire, taciturn. Mouth like he's got a lemon slice inside.

—Thank you Opa, you mutter.

—You come home to me, Mama whispers, strokes your cheek.

You don't meet her eyes.

—Or if not to me, then to him.

She directs your face towards mine, curious and open. She pinches your cheek.

—You might not have a girl, Gilbert, but you can still have your Penelope. Don't forget it.

I don't like how somber your eyes are as you gaze at me. Usually you make faces and protest whenever anyone brings up your lack of a girlfriend.

—What are you guys talking about? Isn't Penelope a girl's name? I ask dubiously.

You grin at that; the somberness disappears. Always quick to smile, crack a joke.

—Yup, sure is. Mama here's just remembered she put Penelope on your birth certificate. Sorry Lutz, but we're gonna have to start calling you that. It's the law. Let's see, I'll need a good nickname. Pen? Lope? Which do you like better?

I cross my arms and pout.

—Neither. And you're lying, I know it.

I stick out my tongue at you.

Father enters the room: we each snap our heads towards him, straighten up just a little. Nocturnal animals in car headlights.

—Now boys, what's this arguing about?

But he sounds in a good mood; he's not asking in earnest. He doesn't even wait for an answer as he strides over to us, two more small boxes in hand.

You slip the book Mama has given you behind your back. Some things we don't tell Father about.

—Have you been good boys this year? Because I have something special here that only good boys are allowed to have!

He holds the boxes up triumphantly, as though they are not gifts for us but prizes that he has won. I've already got the books I asked for and even several pieces of candy I wasn't expecting, so I've no idea what these could possibly be.

—So, Ludwig? Have you been a good boy?

I nod tentatively; I think I have been good, but maybe it's a trick question. Beaming, Father hands me one of the boxes. It is wider than it is tall, with a hinged lid. There is a ribbon holding it shut.

—Then here you are! And for you, Gilbert—I know you've been good. I'm proud of you, son.

Your face is grave as you accept the gift. Father looks expectantly between us.

—Well, go on then! says Father, beaming at us.

I start to untie the ribbon, and you do likewise. Father clears his throat.

—Ludwing, I remembered what you said last Christmas, about being too old for that set of toy soldiers, and that got me thinking…

He sounds proud of himself for remembering. My stomach clenches. I don't feel sure I'll like what's in this box any more than I liked the toy soldiers.

Really it wasn't that I felt too old for them, it was just that they were wearing that same Feldgrau and even then, a year ago, all I could see was you in that uniform, that green-gray against your white skin and by then I understood enough not to want to play with such things. It felt like playing with your life.

I see that you've already opened your box, and you're staring at its contents with a slight frown. My heart beats faster. I open the lid.

Inside is a cross of iron. It's just like the one Father keeps on display in our home in Berlin. But it's a military award; I've no idea why he's giving it to me.

I see Mama put a hand over her mouth as she peers over at my box.

—These are very special family heirlooms, begins Father in a self-serious tone. I thought it was time to pass them on to the next generation. Gilbert, that is my very own Iron Cross that I received in the Great War. And Ludwig, this is the one that was awarded to my brother posthumously.

—Why are you giving him that?

Your voice is sharp as you glare at our father. He looks surprised.

—Why shouldn't I give one to both my sons? They were earned by me and my brother in our time, and now they are passing to you and your brother. I know you can't wear them, but perhaps you'll earn your own in your time.

—Our time? Our war? Our turn to fight and die bravely for the Fatherland? you scoff.

Father's face reddens dangerously.

—This is an honor, Gilbert, one I hope that my sons are worthy of bearing. You should be a bit more grateful.

But you continue as if you haven't even heard:

—Is that what you want? You want Ludwig to die too, like your little brother, as long as he gets his Iron Cross in the end? One son isn't enough for you, you have to sacrifice two to the cause?

Father's eyes are dangerously wide. I know that look and I quail back from it, confused at all the sudden anger. What does a cross have to do with me dying?

—You sit down this instant, young man, and listen to me.

His voice is dangerously low. Yours is not. You shout:

—No! No, I will not. What right do you have to give Ludwig the Iron Cross of your dead little brother? At his age? I know what you're doing! What you're asking of him—it isn't right! Setting him up so young for this life—I know because you did it to me!

—You watch your tongue!

Father's voice isn't low any more. I want to hide my head in Mama's lap like I used to, but I'm too old for that now. I feel a little miffed that Gilbert thinks of me as such a little boy still.

Mama stands. Her face is desperate as she tries to step between you and Father.

—Günther, please, maybe Gilbert has a point—it's only, Ludwig is so young—

—Sit down, woman! Your input is the last thing I need right now! It's always you talking badly about the war behind my back, always you frowning at my sons' manly tendencies, softening them, feminizing them! You think I haven't noticed? You have undermined my every effort to make our boys into proper men, men who will make this family proud! Women don't understand a thing about war and honor!

Mama's face is pale and she sits back down. I want to throw my arms around her, protect her from Father's words. I feel anger boiling in my gut at the way he speaks to her. Mama is kind and good! You always told me to listen to Mama, not to listen to Father, that Mama was right about everything!

But you are here, to say and do what I cannot.

—Don't you dare speak to her that way! She's right! How could you do this to us? Your own sons! You've sold me out, and now you want to do the same thing to Ludwig! Well I hope you're happy with your blood money!

I see the rage beyond comprehension in Father's expression. I see the hand rise, I see the arm swing towards your face as you snarl like a hissing cat, all sharp white teeth. I see it happening and can do nothing. I am paralyzed, rooted to the spot. I wish I could transport myself to stand between you and that hand. I wish I could protect you.

But I cannot.

The slap is loud. Mama lets out an exclamation as you stumble back into the divan, manage not to fall. Father's fists are around your collar before you can recover.

—You insolent ingrate! This is all the influence of your mother! While other young men are jumping at the opportunity to enlist, while others are fighting, risking their lives at Stalingrad so you can live comfortably in the safety of your own home, lounging in your mother's lap—you have the audacity to talk about blood money as an excuse for your own cowardice! I will drag you to the enlistment office if I have to! For shame! Just so you can do exactly what you ought to be doing—what every other young man your age is doing! What you ought to be proud to do! Besides, think of your family! Think of the benefits of enlisting! Would you deny your family those? Selfish, selfish coward! The best training, the best pay—would you rather end up a conscript? We need that money and you know it! Think of all that money could do for your brother!

The anger in me brims over at that—the anger of helplessness, of a child's frustration.

—NO! I lay hands on Father's arm, tug him away from you, surprised by my own strength. No! I don't want the money! I want Gilbert! I want him to stay with us, and you should too!

Father pulls himself up to his full height; only a few inches taller than me now.

—You have no say in this matter, Ludwig. None of us do! It's all fine and good for you all to blame me—go ahead! Blame me, hate me for making Gilbert a professional soldier! Hate me for ensuring he has the best preparation, the best position he possibly could entering into the Wehrmacht! Hate me for trying to ensure this family has enough money to get by! You all want to hide your heads in the sand? Go ahead! But this is the reality we are living in, and by God I will make the best of it! And I will not be disrespected in my own household!

Father slams his foot down for emphasis. The room rings with silence.

Grandfather, who has sat quietly the entire time, stands slowly.

—Actually, Günther, it is my household, and if you think you can speak to my daughter that way under my roof, you are mistaken.

Father's face reddens, this time with embarrassment. The corner of his mouth twitches, as if wanting to retort; but he thinks better of it. With a indignant sniff, he brushes off his suit jacket and leaves the room. We hear him retreat to his bedroom upstairs.

Grandfather sits back down. Mama puts her face in her hands. I sit next to her, put my arms around her and rest my head on her shoulder, wishing I could do more. I look to you, but your eyes are distant, staring into the fire. After a few seconds you pull your gaze away, and without looking at anyone, you too leave the room. A few moments later I hear the back door to the garden open and shut.

Mama lifts her head, wipes her eyes. She looks at me and strokes back my hair.

—Go to him, she whispers with a small smile.

I go to find my shoes and coat with a sense of purpose. Mama has sent me to you.

I find you standing at the bottom of the lawn, where the stone wall separates the tamed grass and trimmed trees from the patch of woods that lines the road leading into the town below. You make a stark figure with your black coat against the snow. You wear it unbuttoned, and no scarf around your bare throat, impervious to the bitter cold. A cigarette hangs from your lips, its smoke mingling with the icy puffs of your breath.

—I thought you said you stopped smoking.

You take a drag from the cigarette without looking me in the eye.

—Lud, that was after Mutter found a pack in my pocket. I would've said anything.

I frown.

—You told me it was a vile habit.

—Yeah, well, might as well get used to vile habits. There'll be plenty of those in the army.

I fall silent at that, thinking of your white hands stained red. My stomach clenches anxiously. I'm so powerless to stop any of it.

The knot in my gut turns from anxiety to frustration.

—I wish I had been born earlier. Then I would be old enough to go with you, and they wouldn't have to separate us.

You turn on me, and I'm surprised and scared by the fire in your eyes.

—Don't say that! You don't ever say that. They are not taking you away too. This war will be long over and I'll be back home before you're old enough to fight! You will never have to touch a gun, Ludwig. You will never have to raise a finger to harm anybody, hear me? You stay young, you stay a child as long as you can! Otherwise it will have been for nothing!

I'm shaking slightly from the force of your words.

—What will have been for nothing?

The fire goes out of your eyes and you return to sulking over your cigarette.

—Me going to the front. Fighting. When I'm out there—I have to fight for something. I have to have something worth surviving for. But it's not gonna be the glorious future of Deutschland. I don't give a shit about empire and Lebensraum. I'm gonna be fighting for you. So you don't have to. I'm gonna finish this war, so it can't touch you. Or Mama.

—And then you're going to come home.

I say it because I want it to be true.

You look at me, force a smile.

—Yeah, of course I'll come home.

I can tell you don't believe it, and that terrifies me.

You reach out and ruffle my hair, even though I'm much too big for that now.

—I'll come home if it takes me ten years, like Odysseus. And you'll be waiting for me. Like Penelope.

You chuckle.

—Who's Penelope? I ask suspiciously.

—Odysseus' wife, you say lightly.

I sock you in the arm.

—Stupid, I'm not your wife.

You laugh and bat me away, rub your arm where I hit you.

—Watch it, you're getting strong!

Your smile softens, and you press your finger to my nose in a childish gesture. I pull a face.

—But you are my number one. Got it?

You grin at me.

—Got it, I mumble.

I try to smile, but I can't. Days, minutes, precious moments… slipping through my fingers. I frown at the snow creaking under my shifting feet.

—Father shouldn't have hit you.

—I shouldn't have spoken to him like that.

I look up in surprise to see a frown on your features.

—But—

—Father was wrong, it's true. But that's no excuse to go ruining our last Christmas together.

—…Till you get back.

You look at me, blink.

—Right, our last Christmas till I get back. But it might be a little while. We don't have that much more time together, for now… I should be trying to make it as nice as possible. I don't want Mama and Father to look back and remember the bad things. You too.

The feeling of helplessness swells in my chest, tightens my throat.

—So, what are you going to do with the Iron Cross?

—I'm going to keep it. And so are you.

—But I thought you said it wasn't right.

—They don't have to mean what Father wants them to mean, Lud. They'll be our own, okay? Something you and I share. Those crosses are brothers; they belong together. So as long as we're apart, we'll have those reminders of where we belong.

My eyes sting. A tear escapes down my cheek, and I hate myself for it, I feel so weak and little and I want to be strong for you.

—Hey now… you say softly, and brush away the tear with your thumb.

I swallow heavily.

—You belong w-with me.

A vain attempt at assertiveness.

—I know kiddo, I know. All the more reason for me to find my way back, right?

I nod, but I can't stem the flow of tears. You kneel down, place a firm hand on my shoulder.

—Hey, I need you to be strong, okay? None of this when it's time for me to go, hear me? Get it all out now. You'll have to be the big man of the house when I'm gone. You gotta take care of Mama. And be good for Father, too. Don't cause them any trouble, or make them worry, alright? I'll be doing enough of that for both of us. I gotta know I'll be leaving them in good hands. Can you do that, for me?

I swallow and nod again, this time managing to hold in the tears.

But when it came time for you to leave, I couldn't hold them back. I couldn't keep my promise. I broke down in Mama's arms as you boarded that train, then broke free of her grasp and ran after you down the platform as far as I could, till I lost sight of you through the blur of tears.

And I couldn't look after Mama and Father, either. After your last letter they sent me to live with Grandfather, where it would be safer. And then they both died, when Berlin was taken…

Ludwig pulled tired eyes away from the window. The fire was nothing but a few glowing embers and the room was growing cold. He sighed and stood, stretching creaking joints. Stepping over his sleeping dogs, he went to the mantel and adjusted Gilbert's frame, just slightly.

His hand strayed to a box next to the picture. He took it down and opened it.

Inside was a cross of iron, and a little wooden whistle carved like a bird, its yellow paint fading. Ludwig's fingers brushed over the objects, caressed them.

Here they are, Gilbert. Still waiting for their reunion.

Ludwig placed the box back on the mantel, next to his brother.

—Goodnight, Gilbert. Sleep well.

Ludwig retreated to the stairwell and called for his dogs to follow him upstairs. But Aster, the oldest, went to the back door and pawed at it to be let out.

—Aster, it's cold out there. You don't want to go out, trust me.

Aster stayed put.

—Aster, time for bed.

Aster whined. Ludwig sighed.

—Alright, but don't say I didn't warn you.

He opened the door for the aged mutt and watched him trot off through the snow with purpose. Ludwig shrugged and closed the door. He wasn't too worried about Aster; there were places to take shelter in the yard, and it wouldn't be the first time he spent the night outdoors.

Ludwig made his way upstairs, followed by the other two dogs. The softness of his mattress and warmth of his blankets were welcome to his weary head, but he did not sleep well. He lay awake, mind filled with thoughts of his brother.

Gilbert hadn't left a hole behind, like Ludwig had thought he would. But Ludwig's world had gotten smaller after Gilbert's departure, as if the space he once occupied had collapsed in on itself. It was impossible to re-stretch the borders, to find the shape his life would have taken had Gilbert still been there.

But still, he sometimes entertained the thought that Gilbert could just be in the next room, or perhaps he was next to him in bed, as they had lain almost every night in childhood, and all he had to do was roll over to find him there. Such fantasies only brought temporary relief, however, and he often found that the pain only increased after the spell broke, like an addict coming down from the high. Then, sleep was the only thing that could help—the dark embrace of oblivion…

…_But now the god has sent the evil dreams thronging upon me. For on this very night there was one who lay by me, like him as he was when he went with the army, so that my own heart was happy. I thought it was no dream, but a waking vision…_

…

Ludwig was awoken by the barking of a dog.


	3. Dritter Gesang

—**Dritter Gesang—**

Aster was an old dog. He had belonged to Ludwig's grandfather before Ludwig, and was nearing the end of life. His sight and hearing had dimmed, but his nose was as keen as ever, and as soon as he smelled the scent he knew what it was.

It was disguised by the smell of days' worth of filth, of crowded and sweaty train compartments, of coat and shoes that had seen a better day five years ago, of distant places with foreign vegetation; different grasses, different trees, different food. But underneath those layers the seasoned smeller couldn't mistake it. Every human had a unique scent they carried with them throughout their lives. Aster barked to welcome him as he trudged up the walkway to the door.

The indistinct figure approached Aster through the snow and he wagged his tail harder.

—Aster, is that you? You still kickin' around, bud? Quiet down, won't you?

The human knelt and scratched his head.

—You look a little worse for wear. You an' me both, huh.

The front door to the grand house opened, and the human stood up with a start.

At first he didn't recognize the tall blond man who stood in the doorway, staring at him with confusion and no small amount of alarm. For a split second he thought Ludwig must have hired some help—or, unreasonable as it was, the man at the train station had been wrong—Ludwig had in fact moved, someone new lived here now. But he blinked, and then he saw.

My God, that's you, isn't it. My God. You're a man. My Ludwig. Little Lutz, God you've grown so big. What did I expect, it's been… eleven years. That's what children do, they grow. Boys into men.

That's right, you're a man. A man I've never met. A stranger. Eleven years. I know nothing about you. It's you but it isn't. Not the Lutz I knew. I'm not the boy I was either, I suppose. I'm sorry about that. Sorry I couldn't return to you just the same. Eleven goddamn years.

Christ you're taller than me aren't you. And much wider. Well that's not that hard these days, should've expected it. Christ, this body, it's so new to me. My little Lutz is a man with a broad chest and strong arms, every bit of skin on your body is new—none of it the old skin I knew, skill cells shed and regenerate and can it even really count as the same person, after all this time, if every bit of you is new and none of the old Ludwig cells are still there? Nothing's the same.

Ah, the hair, I suppose. New strands technically, but still so goddamn blond the HJ would've loved to get their hands on you. And blue eyes—yes. Still blue. Looking at me. What do you see. Do you see your big brother? Or am I just a stranger to you too? Oh God, please recognize me. Don't turn me away—I know I look awful, I wouldn't blame you for not recognizing me, for thinking I'm some beggar off the street—well I practically am aren't I—but still, just don't close the door. Please, you know me…

All this went through Gilbert's head in the space of a few seconds, as Ludwig's eyes swept over his body, then focused on his face and slowly widened.

You do recognize me, don't you. You wouldn't look so shocked, standing there with your mouth hanging open if you thought I came here to beg. Though I am begging you, aren't I. Take me in. Take me back. Is it too much to hope? Do you remember me, really? Have you forgotten me? Have you thought of me often—eleven goddamn years. Say something, God please I don't know how to do this, say something to me Ludwig, let me know I'm not dreaming. Let me know it's really you.

Ludwig stared. His lips moved. No sound. Then finally:

—Gilbert…? A whisper, hoarse, barely articulated on dry lips. His eyes were bewildered.

So, you think you're dreaming, don't you. My turn, I suppose. You want to know I'm real too.

Gilbert licked his lips, chapped with cold.

—Hey, little brother.

Ludwig looked as though he'd been struck. Those words pierced through his chest and Gilbert saw the physical reaction. He stumbled against the door, opening it wide, senseless to the chilled air that now flowed freely into the house. He reached out, hands groping at the air, as if beckoning Gilbert closer, too weak to move his own legs.

Gilbert obeyed the silent plea and stepped forward into his brother's grasp. Cold air flooded into Ludwig's lungs with a deep gasp when his fingers made contact with his brother's form. He clutched Gilbert's shoulders so tight it hurt, but Gilbert didn't mind it one bit. It felt so real, that grip, more real than any sensation he'd felt in eleven long years.

—Is it you…

Gilbert could see the crystalline tears of disbelief forming in the corners of his brother's eyes, clear and shining and pure as a bright winter day, catching and magnifying the blue of his eyes. Sparkling. Jewel-like.

And then Gilbert was pulled against him, hard, being held, pressed in his arms, Ludwig was gasping for breath Gilbert could feel his chest heave against him so tight tight he was being held as he hadn't been held since the day they said their goodbyes, the desperate embrace that attempts to meld bodies together so they can never truly be parted. Gilbert felt very small, lost in his brother's arms.

I could get swallowed up like this. Just disappear into you, you're so solid and real and here and wide and firm as the old oaks we used to climb in the park and your arms could go right through me, couldn't they, if they just squeezed a little bit tighter.

I can wrap my arms around you—a perfect fit. Like my favorite climbing tree back home. It felt so right, the way it filled up my grasp and how I pressed myself against it as I ascended up, up, till Mama called for me to come down before I broke my neck, and you craned your head back with that delighted smile, so impressed you always made me feel like a god, I could do anything when you were watching—

Tears smarted in Gilbert's eyes.

I'm no god now, am I. A ghost, I must seem to you. A barely-there wraith, shadow of what I was. I'm sorry I couldn't come back to you whole, brother, I'm sorry that this is all that's left of me.

Ludwig's hands were on his face, he was staring into his eyes and the crystal tears marked freezing tracks down his cheeks. He mouthed his brother's name but could not say it. All three dogs had crowded around their feet and were wagging their tails in excitement, sensing the intensity of their master's emotion.

Ludwig pressed their foreheads together, closed his eyes. They stayed like that for a very long time. Gilbert let himself be held in place by his brother.

Warm, your skin is warm, your forehead is almost burning. Have I just forgotten the feeling of healthy skin? Skin not constantly whipped by cruel, freezing wind? Is this really your skin I feel, Brüderchen? Your body? Your hands, large and strong…

The dogs grew anxious, whining and pawing at Ludwig's legs. Finally Ludwig seemed to notice them, and drew back, shooing them off. He blinked at Gilbert for a moment, as if waking from a vivid dream and reacquainting himself with reality.

—I, should close the door…

Gilbert nodded dumbly, and stepped inside. He looked around the entry hall.

Place hasn't changed much. I don't think. As far as I can remember. But it's odd, isn't it, seeing a place you remember but haven't been for so long. Everything gets just a little skewed. And when you return you recognize it, but it's not the same—like righting a painting that has come off its axis just a few degrees…

Gilbert felt like he was being righted on his axis. Disorienting.

He realized Ludwig was looking at him.

Ludwig's mouth opened, but again no words came out. He stared at Gilbert as if he were a problem on an exam he couldn't quite figure out. Finally, he settled on:

—Are you hungry?

Gilbert nodded slowly. He'd barely eaten in days. Years.

—The kitchen is… Ludwig pointed behind where Gilbert was standing, still not taking his eyes off his brother's face.

Gilbert smiled a half-smile.

—I remember where the kitchen is.

I think.

He turned and walked through a doorway towards where he hoped it was, and sure enough found it, perhaps a few feet away from where it was in the house of his memory. Once again, not a thing had changed, but everything had shifted, just a fraction, in the process of becoming real again.

—I, uh, can heat up some stew… Ludwig said, coming into the room behind him.

Gilbert sat at the rough wooden table. It had been there as long as he could remember. Old furniture—a little like old friends. Solid, reliable, comfortable. Grandfather was never one for buying the latest fashions. Apparently neither are you.

Ludwig put a pot on the stove to warm, and then placed a plate of bread, cheese, and Wurst in front of his brother. The smell of the meat and cheese filled Gilbert's nostrils and sent a ravenous pain through his gut. It had been so long since he'd eaten real meat, real cheese. Hell, even real bread. He ripped into it, swallowing each bit almost before he could taste the rich, mouth-watering fats. He closed his eyes in pleasure.

Ludwig stood on the other side of the table and watched, transfixed. When Gilbert's plate was empty, Ludwig took it to the stove and ladled some stew onto it.

Gilbert was halfway done shoveling the food into his mouth by the time Ludwig spoke.

—You're alive.

The words were said half to himself, a simple observation, conclusion, revelation, so quiet Gilbert almost didn't hear them over his own slurping and chewing. He blinked at his brother and nodded, continued to eat. After a moment he paused long enough to say:

—Sorry I couldn't send you any letters.

He returned to the stew on his plate. Carrots and beef, so tender, God I forgot what properly salted food is like…

—Where have you been?

—Work camp. Siberia, he grunted between bites.

—Oh.

A long pause, chew chew, swallow, scrape of utensils on earthenware.

—All this time, said Ludwig softly, again as if noting it to himself.

Gilbert finished the last of the stew and set down his fork with a sigh of such contentment as he hadn't known…

…since I was here last. Here, Christmas dinner, eleven years ago. Goddammit that's a long time. What have you done with your life since then, Lutz? He scrutinized his brother's face and Ludwig's eyes lit up.

—Something to drink? Tea? Hot wine? I have some ready, just needs heating.

Ludwig was at the stove again, putting a pot on the burner.

Gilbert nodded dumbly.

Glühwein. I haven't thought about Glühwein in an age.

After a few minutes Ludwig set two steaming mugs down on the table, and took a seat across from his brother. He couldn't stop staring.

—How did you find me?

Still the same quiet, dumbstruck tone, as though worried to speak too loud and wake himself from a dream he did not want to end.

Gilbert took a sip of the too-hot beverage and closed his eyes for a moment, letting the sweet-dry taste wash over his tongue. He looked back at Ludwig, met his intent gaze.

—They released me, put me on a train to Berlin, since that's where we lived before… Of course, the old flat's gone now. I found Frau Müller in the phonebook though. She told me… about Mama and Father. Told me Mama had sent you to Grandfather, when the bombing got bad, but she didn't know if you were still here after all these years. Decided to come look for myself.

—But… but the border, how did you…?

Gilbert gave a tired smile.

—That's a story for another time.

They drank their wine in silence. They watched each other. Ludwig followed Gilbert's every movement with his eyes, every twitch of his long, rough fingers and of his pale, rough lips.

Trying to tell if I'll disappear? Looking for the fading outline, a glimpse of a transparent hand? You do look as though you've seen a ghost. That's what I am now, isn't it. A ghost from the past. I haven't existed to you for eleven years. Barely existed to anyone, I suppose. No one would have noticed if I'd frozen out there in the lumber fields. Just a tally on a page, if that. Maybe I'm only real through contact with others. You knowing I exist makes me exist. Makes me alive again, because I'm alive to you again. Perhaps I haven't really been alive all these years. You could barely call it living anyway. Until now. Now I have to start living again.

But you, you've been alive, haven't you. Because other people knew you were alive. Other people know you, don't they. You have a life, and suddenly here I am showing up back in it.

Gilbert tried to picture Ludwig as he had been last time he'd seen him. Twelve years old. He tried to picture him growing, aging, turning into the man sitting across the table from him, year by year. But it was very difficult. The man across the table seemed vaguely familiar, like someone he had known and forgotten, like someone he should have recognized… but couldn't quite place.

Ludwig looked as though he wanted to say something, but whenever he parted his lips all he did was raise his mug for another sip. Gilbert didn't mind; they would have time for talking later. For now, it was enough to sit here, together, in silence.

The wine made Gilbert tired. And he'd been travelling for so long. Eleven years…

He yawned. Ludwig blinked, came out of a trance.

—I'm sorry, you're probably tired. I'll make up a room for you—I mean, your room. I'll get your room ready for you.

Ludwig's expression was odd as he corrected himself. He stood from the table and put their mugs in the sink.

Gilbert grinned sleepily.

—I could use a bath, to be honest. Don't want to dirty your nice sheets after one use.

—O-oh, of course! Of course, I should have—yes. Yes, I'll go run the water, and then, the bed.

Gilbert stood. He peered at Ludwig.

—I can do that, you know.

—No, no, of course not. I'll take care of it, it's no trouble.

Gilbert frowned as he followed Ludwig from the room. He was acting strange. Timid and flustered all of a sudden. Had the shock of first meeting already passed? Gilbert smirked. You did always have a touch of the awkward about you. That's alright, maybe it is my Lutz after all. A bit funnier now though, now you have a big man's body. Still the same stilted, uncertain little boy in there. Though I can't blame you. What do you do when a ghost shows up on your doorstep? An awkward situation, to say the least.

Ludwig kept glancing back at Gilbert, as they ascended the stairs, when they reached the bathroom, when he turned on the bathwater, when he went to the linen closest to grab a fresh towel.

Wondering if I'll disappear again, aren't you. Don't worry Lutz, I'm not going anywhere. Where would I go, after all? I've found you. I'm home. Even if it doesn't quite feel like it yet.

Ludwig handed Gilbert the soft white towel.

—Here. And uh, there's soap, and shampoo, a brush if you want to use it…

He pointed out the objects by the tub.

Gilbert nodded. Ludwig was still looking at him. Suddenly, a smile broke out on his features. Gilbert grinned back uncertainly.

—What?

Ludwig shrugged.

—You're here. You're alive, he whispered.

Gilbert looked at his brother, his suddenly radiant face.

You keep saying that, but are you so sure? I'm not the person who left eleven years ago, Lutz. But… it makes you happy, doesn't it. That I'm alive. That's nice. That's an awfully nice feeling, warmth under my ribs and in your smile—you're really happy to see me, you haven't forgotten me, have you? My God when's the last time someone was happy to see me…

Ludwig glanced down, his cheeks dusted pink.

—If you… need anything… just call, I'll be in my room… He gestured awkwardly.

Gilbert nodded.

—Thanks, Lutz.

Gilbert's voice was soft.

Ludwig started to go, but turned back in the doorway.

—Anything at all, alright?

Gilbert nodded again, a slight smile on his lips.

Ludwig shut the door, letting his eyes linger on Gilbert as long as possible.

The bath was hot. Gilbert sucked in his breath as he stepped into the tub, but soon his skin was tingling pleasantly and he let himself sink down into the water.

This is what a hot bath is like. Water that unknots your muscles and makes your eyelids droop, instead of making you tense with mind-numbing cold. It's nice. I'd forgotten how nice. Forgotten the sensation of being comfortable at all. Nice to get those fucking clothes off. Stick out like a sore thumb with them. Especially the goddamn telogreika. People staring at me like a criminal at the train station. Might as well carry a sign reading "Soviet Spy." I need to get some real clothes. Clothes that don't stink of the gulag.

Ludwig's will be too big for me now. Guess I can't borrow.

Gilbert scrubbed himself with soap until he felt raw. Pink as a newborn, just like Mama used to insist. Then he laid back and closed his eyes, breathing in the steam and the calm.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been like that when there was a knock on the door. Gilbert opened his eyes to see Ludwig poking his head in.

There was an anxious look in his eyes, but it relaxed as soon as his eyes came to rest on Gilbert in the tub. As though relieved to find him there, and not vanished into thin air.

—Ah, you—everything alright? You need anything?

Warmth that had nothing to do with the water seeped into Gilbert's chest. He smiled with his eyes.

—No, everything's okay.

It is, isn't it?

Ludwig nodded, licked his lips nervously.

—Right. Good.

He hesitated in the doorway, staring at Gilbert, as if unwilling to take his eyes off of him again. After a moment of deliberation, he stepped forward.

—Have you washed your hair? Did you find the shampoo?

Gilbert pointed to the bottle on the side of the tub.

—It's right there, he said with a slight smirk.

—Oh, right, just…

—But no, I haven't yet.

Ludwig's eyes lit up.

—Would you like me to do it for you?

Gilbert raised his eyebrows.

—It's just, you shouldn't have to do it yourself, Ludwig hurried on. You should relax. I guess… it's been a while since you've had a warm bath…?

Gilbert let a genuine smile creep over his features.

—You've no idea.

He considered his brother for a moment, standing in the middle of the bathroom floor, hands clasped anxiously over his stomach.

—Wash my hair, like I used to wash yours when you were little? he asked softly.

Ludwig smiled shyly in return, raising his shoulder in a slight shrug.

Gilbert handed him the bottle of shampoo in response.

Ludwig relaxed visibly as he accepted it. Rolling up his sleeves, he pulled the stepping-stool over and sat down at the end of the tub behind his brother.

There was silence in the room, save for the uncapping of the bottle and liquid being squirted into Ludwig's palm. Gilbert stayed still and waited, and after a moment Ludwig's fingers found their way into his hair.

They dug into the roots, scrunching his hair up in foamy peaks. Combed through knotted strands, patient, until they could run through smoothly. Massaged steadily over every inch of scalp. Gilbert's head bobbed gently with the motion, rubbing in circles, then the other way, at the temples, behind the ears. Ludwig was slow and thorough.

Gilbert's eyes drooped. Smells nice. Pine trees. Fresh. Like our axes digging into the wood, releasing the aroma into the crisp air… when it wasn't too cold to smell. One of the nice things. Maybe the only nice thing. Fingers had to be strong to grip an axe all that time. Up. Down. Up. Down. Over and over. A circle, never-ending. Rubbing circles in my hair… Fingers strong enough to hold an axe…

Suddenly Ludwig stilled. Gilbert's eyes fluttered open, but he didn't move to look at his brother.

Then a hand came down on his shoulder, gentle, tentative, as if Gilbert's bones were spun glass. The other cupped the back of Gilbert's head, cradling his skull in a palm. Fingers moved again, less sure this time. Simply stroking the already-clean hair, gingerly, tenderly.

Gilbert barely breathed. He felt the fingers on his shoulder, the palm, resting there warmly against his skin. The soft touch against his head, soothing. Another human, touching him. Touching him with tenderness. A forgotten sensation. Ludwig, huddled under his blankets and patting his head as best he could as he cried into his shoulder because he didn't want to be a soldier, he didn't want to fight and kill and die and he felt so small and young and weak to have his little brother comfort him like that but he couldn't help it. Warmth. Safety. I'm not leaving now. I'm back. I came back to you like I promised. It is you, isn't it Lutz. It's really you.

The hands slid down to cross over Gilbert's chest and pull him against the side of the tub. Ludwig's head leaned forward until his nose was pressed into the mess of sudsy hairs by Gilbert's ear. His shoulders shook, his breath hitched against Gilbert's cheek. Gilbert let himself be held as Ludwig cried silently.

Gilbert felt something trickle down his cheek. Watch out, you'll get soapsuds in my eyes. He blinked. Oh, no, it's not suds.

Their salt tears mingled in the bathwater below. Gilbert leaned further into his brother's embrace.

Ludwig's shaking slowed, quieted to moist, labored inhales. Gilbert turned to face him. Ludwig's eyes met his over a space of inches, blue and red-rimmed and questioning. Gilbert looked into them, looked for the twelve-year-old boy he'd last seen and embraced on a train platform in Berlin. Eleven years ago. Wide blue eyes, shining, pleading. Don't go. Don't go. Don't leave me. You don't have to—just stay, stay with me.

And somewhere in the sky-bright irises, he found him.

It's still you. And it's still me. Guess we've both changed. But we're still brothers.

A smile twinged the corner of Gilbert's lips. The troubled blue eyes were pacified, for the moment.

—You've come back to me, murmured Ludwig. Like you promised.

—I've always kept my promises to you, haven't I?

Ludwig's eyes closed. A tear rolled down his cheek. He nodded.

—And what about you? Gilbert chuckled. Gonna finish with my hair before the shampoo blinds me? he teased gently.

Ludwig blinked his eyes open.

—Oh, of course…

Quickly, he rinsed Gilbert's hair. Gilbert's face glowed contentedly as he laid back and let the warm water run over his scalp and neck.

—Now c'mon, hand me my towel and let me get out of here before I shrivel up into a wrinkly old prune, he grumbled good-naturedly when Ludwig had finished.

Ludwig looked at his brother fondly as he rose to grab the towel from its hook. He held it open next to the bath for Gilbert to step into.

But when Gilbert stood, water streaming down his pale body in rivulets, the light went out of Ludwig's eyes. He frowned as he surveyed his brother's thin frame.

Gilbert wrapped himself in the towel quickly, but couldn't cover all of himself. He could still feel Ludwig's eyes on him as he grabbed another, smaller towel to rub through his hair.

I know. I know what you're thinking. You don't have to stare. What do you expect from a man who's been living on a gulag diet and regimen for the past ten years, huh? I know you can see my bones. You don't have to look so damn surprised, so damn sorry. Not like it's your fault. Never mind, I'll get my fat back. Just keep feeding me more of that Wurst and stew every day and you mark me, I'll get it back.

…If you want to keep feeding me, that is. I guess I don't know anything about your routine, your life here. What kind of work you have, income. Can you afford to feed another mouth? Did you get all of Grandfather's money? What about friends… a girl? Maybe you don't want a brother around for every meal. Maybe you don't have room in your house, no matter how many empty rooms. Maybe you don't have any room in your life—

Gilbert's thoughts were interrupted by a light touch on his shoulder. He turned to see Ludwig looking at him with some concern, but luckily the pity had gone out of his eyes. He seemed to have sensed that Gilbert wanted some space.

—I'll go put some pajamas out on your bed… I'll, um, say goodnight, when you're ready…

Ludwig left the bathroom.

The spot on Gilbert's shoulder where he'd touched him was warm.

…

I remember this place. This room, this bed, the way the moonlight streaks in through the crack in the curtains on a clear night, keeps me awake. Eleven years since I've lain on this mattress, watched the sky out that window. Is it real? Memory, it's a funny thing. Sometimes you remember something, but it feels like it must be something you made up, it plays like a movie in your head, light comes in through the eyes and the brain makes sense of it all, lets us interpret faces and expressions and helps us recognize things we've seen before. We remember. But it's no longer real. The moment is past, gone, forever. All that's in your brain are little electric impulses, and how can that be real? The mind plays a malleable movie reel of things that you've seen and heard and done but it's not real because the past doesn't exist. Your past self doesn't exist. You remember it because it was you, but it's not you any more and so it's as if it happened to another person. Blood filling the creases of my own palms and the smell of rotting flesh—it's odd, I can remember the buzzing of the flies on the bodies but not the smell. Just that it made me sick. The way bodies crumple when they fall. Snapshots and sound clips.

A little boy's laugh and his warm, soft body huddled close to mine on cold nights from another lifetime. Cold, cold nights in shacks the wind howled right through on winter nights I thought I wouldn't survive, huddled close to other stinking, bone-bag bodies of the living dead. No more little boy to hold close. Bones don't do much to warm you on nights like that. And sometimes the next morning they'd gone cold right next to you in bed, don't wake up. Struck off the roll-call, like they never existed.

Gilbert shivered and turned over, pulling the blankets tighter.

Thin hands, dirt, broken blisters, blood-stained wood of axe-handles. Rifle barrels, rusty not medal but red. Red and brown-caked boots, wading in mud and blood and a girl's dirt-streaked face, wide dead dead stare. Bodies look so little all thin and huddled and crumpled against a barn wall. Gray skies, gray earth, gray mud gray corpses. Feldgrau. Sickness, retching, could feel that man's insides, feel my knife sliding through a warm body. Guts are so soft, bodies are so soft and weak it's a wonder any of us survive.

Ludwig. You aren't soft or weak, are you. You didn't feel that way when you had your arms around me. Strong enough to break me now. Little boy, blue blue eyes, don't go, you don't need to go, stay here with me. You're in the next room. That is you. How? How can you be the boy who ran after my train at the platform of the Berlin Hauptbahnhof, the boy who's warmth I remember from a thousand nights when we were young? We aren't who we were. Would you beg me to stay now? You didn't beg for me to return. Or maybe you did, but I wouldn't know. What are you thinking now. We are so strange to each other, brother. Eleven years. I've known blood and dirt and death and pain. Have you known any of these? You don't know me. I don't know you. Ludwig, Ludwig, when you were little I cried into your child's arms and told you I didn't want to die. How many times have I cried to the memory of those arms and asked for a reason to live?

Gilbert sat up. His heart was racing; he needed to stop. The images, the thoughts, came so quickly, one on the tail of the other and it was a flood he couldn't dam up. He held his head in his hands. His feet found the floor and before he knew what he was doing he was at his door, opening it onto a silent, empty hallway. He crept down to the next room, and stopped.

Ludwig was behind that door. The man who had been the boy whom Gilbert had loved so completely—still did love, but no longer knew. The boy with whom he'd shared a bed so many nights in childhood, become so accustomed to the warmth next to him, felt so alone those first nights of basic training, even in crowded barracks with too many other bodies, felt alone ever since they parted.

Will you send me away? Or will you welcome me next to you, for old times' sake? Your bed is probably warm. Sleeping next to you would be quite different now, I suppose, now you're even larger than me. You were already getting tall when I left though, weren't you. But you hadn't filled out. You were still small next to me under the blankets. Small but warm. Has too much time passed? I know it's not like it used to be. But can we pretend? It could make it just a little easier.

He knocked, softly. Turned the handle, cracked the door open, just a few inches, peered inside.

—Gilbert?

A soft voice, but deep, reassuring.

Ludwig was sitting up in bed, as though he expected him. Gilbert opened the door a bit wider and slipped inside, relieved.

—You're awake.

—I couldn't sleep, Ludwig admitted with what Gilbert imagined was a sheepish grin, though he couldn't be sure in the dark.

—Me neither, Gilbert said with a slight laugh.

Wordlessly, Ludwig pulled back the sheets of his bed, offering the spot beside him. Wordlessly, Gilbert accepted.

He crawled into the spacious four-poster next to his brother. Oh, so warm. I was right, when you have more body you have more warmth. Much more than when you were small. Oh thank God, thank you for this. For letting me in.

But all he muttered was a muffled:

—Hand me a pillow.

Ludwig did, and they settled back against the cushions.

Gilbert lay on sheets warmed by his brother. He could feel the heat radiating off of him. They were quite close. And quite far. Not like it used to be. This unbridgeable gap between them, the barrier to true contact. Human touch, human connection.

Ludwig pulled the cover up to their chins. They faced each other. Gilbert could feel Ludwig's eyes on him, though his features were in shadow. They were close enough that he could feel puffs of warm breath on his cheek.

Would you let me hold you, like you used to? Is it too different now? I would like, so much, just to feel… feel your realness. Make me real. Could I just—no. Maybe you don't want that any more, maybe already, you're only allowing me here because you feel obliged—

But then Gilbert felt a warmth on his arm. A hand. The hand rubbed up to his shoulder and still for a moment. Gilbert held his breath.

Please, please keep it there. Don't pull away.

Ludwig didn't pull away. Instead the hand slid to his back. He moved closer, brought his arm around Gilbert's body.

Gilbert stayed stiff for a moment. Is this real? Do you mean this? I'm dreaming. So long, I've dreamed of arms around me. Your arms, that I left behind. Stay. Please, stay. Hold me.

Ludwig didn't move. Gilbert allowed himself to relax. Warm. Safe. He tucked his head under Ludwig's chin, his nose barely grazing his shoulder. They were still. Breaths in the darkness.

Then Ludwig squeezed his arm tighter. His nose pressed into Gilbert's hair as he held him close, tight. Arms so strong, but not for crushing; for protecting. So secure in that embrace, so warm. Home. I'm home. Not in this house but right here with you. The only place I belong.

Gilbert heard a shaky inhale, felt the moisture of tears seep into his hair. Ludwig brought his other arm around him, stroked his hair. Gilbert's hand tentatively found Ludwig's arm, gripped it in return. It was firm, strong. Connected to a solid shoulder. A real body. A strong body, a healthy body. Alive.

My little brother. My little brother. Ludwig, my little Lutz. It is you. It is. Just like eleven years ago. For this moment, just for tonight, it can be like it used to be…

_Joy, warm as the joy that shipwrecked sailors feel  
when they catch sight of land – Poseidon has struck  
their well-rigged ship on the open sea with gale winds,  
and crushing walls of waves, and only a few escape, swimming,  
struggling out of the frothing surf to reach the shore,  
their bodies crusted with salt, but buoyed up with joy  
as they plant their feet on solid ground again,  
spared a deadly fate. So joyous now to her  
the sight of her husband vivid in her gaze,  
that her white arms, embracing his neck,  
would never for a moment let him go . . ._


End file.
